Tainted Teacup

by Michelle Busby

  Chapter Six

  Finbar Holmes had almost completed his unit’s indoor renovations by Tuesday. The honey-colored wood floor planks were glued down throughout the house, and he had installed four-inch yellow pine tongue and groove boards to the walls and ceilings in the living room, dining room, kitchen, hallway, and second bedroom. They were stained a soft buttery blond color and sealed with Tung oil, giving them a warm matte finish that complemented the flooring and instantly transformed the space into a cozy home.

  Holmes installed the same boards to the master bedroom ceiling and painted them a neutral white semi-gloss to reflect the soft lighting from the bedside lamp. The walls were painted a light peach with white trim and matched the quilted bedspread made by his late wife Mary. It covered his pillow-top Queen-sized mattress and set off the new bedroom furnishings. He bought the natural oak headboard, dresser, twin night tables, and matching highboy chest online from Badcock’s Furniture and had them delivered and set up by workers from the local store. Badcock’s had also delivered a honey oak dinette set, along with a medium brown tweed sofa with a matching armchair for the living room, a round dark brown leather ottoman, and an oak entertainment center, which he positioned in front of the double front windows.

  Other deliveries included four unassembled six-foot bookcases in flat boxes and a grey fabric futon sofa for the spare bedroom/office from Wal-Mart, as well as a microwave, an electric teakettle, a 40-inch flat screen television, and four cases of Guinness beer in cans.

  His personal items, which had been pre-shipped from Dublin, filled only three large cardboard storage boxes and consisted mostly of clothing, photographs in gold-toned frames, bedding, afghans and tea cozies crocheted by his late wife, memorabilia knick-knacks, items given him by his children and grandchildren, and Sherlock’s bed and toys.

  In a matter of one week, Finbar had completely renovated and furnished his new living space, all without detection by the woman living on the other side of the wall. He chuckled as he walked appraisingly throughout his home, straightening a crooked picture, adjusting the position of a dining chair, and repositioning the collection of bric-a-brac in the built-in display shelves. He ran his hands across the nubby fabric on the overstuffed living room seats and lovingly patted the delicate hand-tatted lace doilies he had placed on the arms and backs.

  “Do you approve, m’darlin? It’s not exact, but’s near enough home to feel you here,” he said to his wife’s photograph on the end table. Scíth go maith, mo ghrá. Rest well, my love.”

  He touched his fingers to his lips and then to the picture, a gesture performed many times in the past eight years. Then, grabbing a cold Guinness from the refrigerator, he pulled his shirt off and strode outside wearing jean shorts and sandals, Sherlock on his heels. Taking up a position in the lawn chair, he drank his beer and sunned himself as he supervised the men in their sweatshirts assembling the six-foot high wooden privacy fence around the back yard.

  While Finbar was working on his tan, Tommie was meeting with Earl at the shop. She had valiantly tried to conceal the dark circles beneath her eyes but ultimately gave up and just applied a tiny bit of blush to her cheeks to draw attention away from them. She sat at a table with her left leg propped on a box Earl had considerately fetched from the bulk herb storeroom.

  Tommie strove to maintain a pleasant smile as she watched two latex-gloved men pore through her herbs and potions and tea things. All the house blends had been opened and their contents bagged, much to her despair. The natural remedies which Tommie had so carefully created and stored in the undercounter mini refrigerators were sitting on the counters, exposed to the warmer temperature of the ambient air, spoiling. Who’s going to reimburse me for my product, she wondered, and the time it’s taken to make my potions?

  All the hard surfaces in the shop were covered with smudges of black fingerprint powder. Every teacup in the caddies had been dusted for prints, and even the ones in the dishwasher had been removed and contaminated. Those will all have to be rewashed and sanitized, she thought, and I’ll have to spray and wipe down every single table and chair.

  Earl carefully watched her face as her eyes darted around the room. He noted her distressed expression, and he was acutely aware of her body language. Each time one of the investigating technicians touched her potions or herbs or equipment, she visibly tensed. He could see she struggled to maintain her composure, and he was impressed by her fortitude. He liked Tommie Watson a great deal. She had become a welcome addition to Floribunda in general, and Earl Petry in particular.

  Earl was twice divorced and had no shortage of female admirers hoping to be the one to make the third time a charm, but he was decidedly against another marriage. He had heard through the gossip mill that Tommie was anti-marriage, too, after three failed attempts. To Earl, that was not such a deterrent, nor was her weight. He liked his women “fluffy.” Age was also not a factor. She was 64; he was 58. As far as he was concerned, after the age of 45, it was all about the same. The issue was the current circumstance: Tommie Watson was officially a murder suspect.

  “Tommie, are you holding up all right?” he asked.

  “As well as can be expected, Earl. It’s all very upsetting, you know? Coral’s death, this investigation …” And people touching all my stuff, she almost said.

  “What’s the most upsetting?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “What’s the most upsetting to you? Coral’s death?”

  “Well, yes. And the fact that she died here in my shop. That’s pretty traumatic. And I couldn’t help her even though I tried,” she admitted.

  “Yes, you did. I know you did. What else?” he prompted, hoping against hope she wouldn’t say something that he would have to repeat on a witness stand.

  “All this!” She swung her arm in an arc indicating the investigators. “Going through and messing with all my things!” She said it despite herself.

  “I realize it’s invasive,” he offered.

  “It’s more than invasive, it’s destructive. My herbs are contaminated. My tonics are ruined. Who’s going to replace them? Who’s going to pay for my property, my time?” she cried aloud as a tear escaped her eye and traveled down her cheek.

  “Tommie, we have to be thorough. A crime was committed …” he began.

  “What crime? What crime, Earl? She collapsed. A horrible man threatened her, and it was too much for her heart. Why aren’t you questioning him instead of futzing through my things?” She was angry now, and in her anger, she lashed out at the one person who was being kind to her.

  Earl put his hand over hers, but she withdrew it and wiped at her teary eyes and runny nose.

  “Why? Why, Earl? I’m not a suspect, but I feel like one with this treatment.”

  Earl sat very still for a moment, and in that moment, Tommie realized she was a suspect. Earl felt the tangible shift in her demeanor, and it saddened him.

  “Tommie Watson,” he said with a deep sigh, “I have to tell you that you are a suspect in the death of Ms. Coral Beadwell, and if you’d prefer to have an attorney present before you say anything else to me, you may.”

  “No.” Her voice was emphatic. She blinked twice and stared in disbelief at her hands folded on the tabletop. Then, she lifted her head and looked him in his pewter eyes.

  “Earl Petry. I don’t know you well, but what I do know is that you’re a fair, honest man. Please, tell me right now what you think happened and why I’m a suspect.” She was composed, and her voice was well modulated. She searched his face and waited for an answer.

  “Coral Beadwell was murdered yesterday in your shop in the presence of seven people. It’s my job to find out who, why, and how. You are only one of those seven people. You are not the only suspect. And that’s about it,” he said.

  “Eight people.”

  “What?”

  “There were eight people. Five in the shop, one came in just before she died, one came in afterwards, and one come in both before and after.
”

  “Who else was here?” he asked.

  “Somebody came in the back door and used the restroom at 11:55, Beverly Cantrell came in at 12:05, and she and Henry Erving both came in after the EMTs.”

  “So, eight people. I counted Henry and Beverly in the seven interviewed yesterday. Who was in the restroom?”

  “I only saw her from the back, but it looked a lot like Linda Beadwell.”

  “Did she speak?”

  “No, and I just saw her leaving out the door, so I’m not positive it was Linda.”

  “OK. Good to know. You’re very observant. How is it you’re so precise with the times?” he asked.

  “Occupational hazard. I was a schoolteacher, and everything ran by the clock. And as an herbalist, I have to be exact in making my teas and potions, down to the minute. That’s why the gigantic clock with a second hand on my wall.”

  “I’m … I’m impressed. Who knew?” he marveled.

  She shrugged. “I guess. You said Coral was murdered, Earl. How do you know that?”

  “I can’t really tell you the details, Tommie.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a heart attack or a stroke or a brain aneurysm,” she reasoned.

  “It was not.”

  “It wasn’t a physical thing. She wasn’t bludgeoned or strangled or stabbed or shot or blown up with a bomb or exploded in spontaneous combustion.”

  “She was not.” He nearly smiled but caught himself before it reached his mouth.

  “That only leaves one thing. She was poisoned.”

  He was serious once again and sat silently.

  Tommie’s gaze shifted slowly around the room counterclockwise from her position in the corner near the trash bins, stopping briefly on each area as though taking a mental picture. Her eyes swept over the tables and chairs, the self-serve counter, the door to the herb storage room, the back door, the bathroom, the adjoining door to Brewster’s, the potions prep counters and cabinets, the house blend canisters on the counter, the pickup and cash register area, the teacup caddies, the small drink coolers, the right window and display, the front door, the bookcases, the left window and display, and finally back on Earl’s face. She leaned her elbows on the table and brought her clasped hands up as though in prayer, resting her chin on her laced fingers.

  “I have one thing to say, Earl, and I want you to listen really well. I did not kill Coral Beadwell,” she stated.

  He smiled slowly. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tommie Watson got home that afternoon before dark, for a change. Zed and Red were delighted to see her and tried to tell her about the excitement outside and the strange dog they smelled, but Tommie didn’t seem to understand, so they stood at the back door and whined. Since it was still daylight, and the temperature had risen to the high-60s, she grabbed their leashes from their hooks in the hallway. Red did a joyous dance when he saw her holding them. When Zed caught the familiar scent of his leash, he whirled in circles until she trapped him between her legs and fastened it in place on his harness.

  She opened the back door, and the two old dogs bolted out like they were young again. They were met by an equally excited Jack Russell Terrier. The three of them went around and around sniffing hind ends. Tommie would have been amused had it not been for what was directly in her sightline: a skinny, hairy man laid back in her blue Adirondack chair wearing nothing but short denim pants.

  She let out a scream and jerked on the leashes, causing Red to yelp. Then man abruptly sat up and waved.

  “Halloo! How’re you doin’, missus?” he called.

  Tommie was struck mute. She stumbled backward as he rose from the chair and advanced on her.

  “I’m yer neighbor. ‘Tis nice to meet you at last.”

  It was apparent he was the Irishman who had bought the duplex. Tommie was flustered but tried not to show it. All she could think of was the unfinished welcome basket in the house as she genially shook his offered hand.

  “I’m … I’m Thomasina Watson, but people call me Tommie. Please, don’t evict me,” she blurted.

  Finbar pursed his thin lips and raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise, and then he laughed enthusiastically.

  “I’ll not do it, missus. I’ll be glad to have you here.”

  Tommie almost fainted with relief. Instead, she burst into tears, and Finbar led her to the chair.

  “What’s all this?” he asked. “I’m sorry to have given you a jump. Stop your tears, lad.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a bad couple of weeks. I thought for sure you’d make me move.”

  “Nah. I can see from your leg that you can’t do much moving. Had one like that myself years ago on m’knee. Restricts you a bit.”

  “Yeah. Broken ankle. Better, but not 100 percent.”

  “Ah. So, tell me Thomasina-but-people-call-me-Tommie. D’you like it here?”

  “I do. I really do. When Beverly told me somebody bought the duplex, she said I’d have to get out.”

  “Ach. She was a right git, that woman. Didn’t care for her, myself. Or yer man Charlie, either.”

  “He’s not my man!” Tommie exclaimed.

  “It’s just an expression. The pair of them can rot, for all I care.”

  Tommie allowed herself a slight smile.

  “There, that’s better. Now, let’s get acquainted. My name is Holmes.”

  “As in Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Yah, but that’s his name, not mine,” he said, jerking his thumb towards his little dog. “Mine’s Finbar. It means ‘fair-haired’ in Gaelic. Was right descriptive when I still had a full head of it.”

  “Finbar Holmes. And that’s Sherlock. Funny. Those are my boys, Zed and Red. Zed’s the Boston Terrier, and Red’s the Portuguese Podengo Pequeño.”

  “Oh. A fancy breed, have you?”

  “No, they’re both rescue dogs. Zed was given away because his owners lived on a small farm and he liked to sample the chickens. Red was a stray I got from the pound. I didn’t know his breed until I saw his twin on TV in a dog show. I didn’t tell him he was purebred. It’d go to his head.”

  Finbar laughed heartily. “I like that. Sherlock is a pound dog, too. They’re better if got like that, y’know?”

  “Yeah, I think so, too. So, I was expecting you last Friday. When did you get here?”

  “I come in on a Wednesday last in the afternoon. That woman brought me out, and I’ve been here ever since.”

  “Really? I had no idea. I haven’t heard a sound from next door.”

  “That’s because I’ve gone to bed early and been quiet whilst you’ve been home from work each morning and evening. I’ve done my work during the daytime. Would you care to come in and see? And you can have a bit of brown bread with butter ’n’ cheese and a suppa tea.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer. He strode off toward the duplex and entered his unit, leaving the door open.

  “I’ll just put the dogs in the house,” she called.

  “Nah. Let them off their leads. They’ll not go anywhere,” he responded from inside.

  “No, Red’s a runner. I’d lose him for sure. And Zed’s basically blind, so he might wander into the street.”

  Finbar stepped into the doorway. He had put on sandals and a grey t-shirt that read Find it in Florida in big red letters. “Thomasina. Did you not see the fence? The dogs’ll not stray away. I promise.”

  For the first time Tommie realized what was different about the yard: it was enclosed in a high wooden privacy fence.

  “When did this happen?” she asked in amazement.

  “Today. Finished just before you came home. D’you like it, missus?”

  “I love it!” she exclaimed as she unhooked the leashes and laid them on the chair. “I absolutely love it.”

  “Lovely. C’mon in and let’s have a sup.”

  Tommie entered the back door and was instantly transported into another world. It was entirely unlike her side of the duplex, which was c
old and sterile with its grey walls and brown painted concrete floor.

  “Whoa! Did you do all this yourself? While I was at work? Wow. I’m impressed. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you. And if your side is anything like mine was, we’ll have to fix it, as well. I love working with m’hands. I used to be a decorator.”

  “Like an interior designer? Is that what you did in Ireland? Decorating?”

  “I don’t think it means the same here in America. I was married and had four children by the time I was 24. Here, sit down and I’ll tell you more about myself whilst I get our tea and bread ready.”

  Tommie sat at the dinette with her back to the front window so she could keep an eye on the dogs outside, while Finbar fussed about the kitchen preparing the tea and bread and cheese.

  “I was a fisherman from the age of sixteen. I married my Mary when I was 19 and she was 17, and we lived in Dublin. I had a motorcar accident when I was just 30, and I laid up in a coma for many months. When I came awake, my knee was crushed, my shoulders was broken, and I couldn’t fish anymore, so I went to school and became a decorator. In Ireland, a decorator is someone who does carpentry and painting inside residences. It was a good job. I made plenty of money to support my wife and my lads.

  “You had four boys?” Tommie asked.

  “No. Two boys, two girls.”

  “But you just called them lads.”

  “We calls everybody lads. Boys and girls.”

  “Oh. OK. Sorry to interrupt. Go on.”

  “When I was 50, my Mary got the cancer, so I went to school for a year and trained to be an FSAI Inspector. That’s someone who does inspections for the Food Safety Authority of Ireland. They was good wages, so we used what we needed for daily living and banked the rest. Mary’s treatments were paid by the government, but I took some money out to make her more comfortable at the end. She died eight years ago this April.” He made the sign of the cross. “When I turned 66, I became a pensioner and now I collect my government income.”